Wedding Day Blues
by SkyKissed
Summary: Future!Fic. If Alicia Washington is going to watch her son get married, she's going to need a strong drink. Reynolds...he'd rather not even think about giving away his little girl.  W/T, M/M, J/E


**A/N: **Oh god. I can't believe I've written this. FOR SHAME. And as for how everyone would look in twenty-five years…I like to imagine they age in Mass Effect time, or found some miracle drug in the jungle, that keeps them all looking…pretty much the same. It's how I justify this…abomination.

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><p><strong>Wedding Day Blues<strong>

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><p>"I can't do this."<p>

"Yes, you can. Just breathe."

"Fine, I _can_ do this. I just don't _want_ to."

Taylor pins her with a disbelieving look, hold on her arm tightening as she attempts to pull away, extricate herself from his grasp. His hold is surer than death itself and she finds herself held fast. Glares at him, before adjusting her ridiculous dress (she'd wanted to wear her dress _uniform_, had been quickly vetoed). Her husband chuckles, gives her arm a condescending pat, "I got you down this aisle once before, I can do it again."

Alicia arches a brow, falls into step beside him, manages to speak through her tight smile at their audience, "Funny. I seem to remember it being Jim and too much scotch that got me down the aisle."

"Because that sounds romantic," she chuckles lightly at his disapproving tone. Jim and Elizabeth have preceded them, take their seats. Taylor presses a quick kiss to the side of her head, speaks against her ear, "Come on, Commander, can't let the colony think you've turned coward." From the wicked smirk on his face he's entirely well aware that, were they alone, she'd retaliate for such a remark. A low tactic. Chiding her for her lack of courage, essentially blackmailing her.

And it works, damn it. The woman scowls at him, squares her shoulders and begins the walk to her seat.

Her son stands before the steps of Command, handsome and entirely too confident and at ease with the situation. In fact, he looks perfectly at ease with _everything_, blue eyes dancing with cheer, until he fixes on her. Then his eyes narrow, almost suspicious. Looking almost comically like his father, he fixes her with a look. Asks, wordlessly, if she's going to make him chase her down the aisle and drag her back here. She flicks her eyes to the death grip she's being held in, shrugs. As desperately as she'd like to lead him on a merry chase, she's got no chance of it.

He smirks.

Bastard.

They pause briefly before the steps. Sam steps down, accepts his father's congratulatory handshake. The two men exchange a glance, shake their heads as she shifts uncomfortably beside them. To make matters worse, the kid chooses now to get sentimental. Wraps her in a quick embrace. She'd be touched, if she weren't so damnably nervous, a little sad, and so determined to hide both sentiments behind a veneer of stoicism. He understands well enough, kisses her quickly before letting them take their seats.

Jim is leaning over to her immediately, "How much did you drink to get down the aisle this time?"

"Nothing," she mutters, a little mournfully, "Taylor wouldn't let me."

"Shame."

It is. Because now, shallow as it is, she finds herself needing it. She has a son. She's old enough to have a _married_ son. She sighs, turns to her friend, "I'm old, Shannon. I feel old. "

The Sheriff snorts, crosses his arms over his chest in disbelief, "You don't get to talk, Wash. You've just forfeited all rights to talk."

"I'm going to have a married son."

"He's marrying _my granddaughter_."

It's true. Much to the horror of all involved (and by all, she means mostly Mark, who'd damn near suffered a heart attack when his baby girl had announced she was romantically tied to his self-proclaimed sister's son) Samuel Taylor had set his sights on the Reynold's oldest daughter, the ever lovely, temperate, entirely too brainy scientist who had all the social graces of her mother and the absolute stubbornness of her father. It's an amusing, if occasionally worrisome, combination (and it's for the best, perhaps, that she's marrying someone so much larger than herself, someone entirely too willing to fight her battles, haul her out of whatever pitfall she's gleefully stumbled upon).

Wash smirks, nudges his shoulder none too delicately, "That's right, your _granddaughter_. Damn, Shannon, you _are_ old."

"You want to go down that road, Wash?"

'You're both unbelievable. Stop this, only the pair of you could behave in such a way. You're at a wedding, behave!" Elisabeth hisses, gives her husband's thigh a harsh squeeze. The man very nearly squeaks as she adds nails to the equation; both obey. For all her soft smiles and motherly attitude, it is the matron of the Shannon's that's the most terrifying. Wash shifts uncomfortably in her seat, glances behind her towards the procession.

It's lovely, really it is. A sunny, perfect day, flowers hung up, the entirety of the square transformed into something peaceful, pristine. Almost perfect, almost too ideal. Something they never could have had in the future, a life they never would have been entitled to. Not a cloud in the sky, not too terribly warm. Perfect. The sort of day every girl wants for her wedding. Perfect day for the perfect girl.

It's thought with a begrudging note of respect. She isn't surprised, not really. Mallory (she almost rolls her eyes; Mark, Maddy, Mallory, hahah, not at all confusing or irritatingly sweet) is a lovely thing, a sweet young woman she's proud to know, has been proud to watch change from a gawky youth to a poised woman. Knows, in her heart, that she makes her son happy, knows that she's perfect for him (will stabilize him, as Nathaniel stabilizes her), knows that she loves him. And knows, when push comes to shove, that she couldn't lose her son to a better girl.

But she _is _losing her son. It's irrational, illogical, and against her very character to get so put out over such a thing. But he's family, her family. Her son, her kid. And while she's entirely aware he will always love her, need her, respect her, he won't be _hers_ any longer. She'll lose him.

Alicia Washington hates losing. Is loathe to let the things dear to her heart escape.

But there's her son, waiting for his bride, and there's very little she can do but sit and let it happen. She feels Nathaniel give her hand a comforting squeeze, understands the morbid turn her thoughts have taken. Entirely out of place in this cheerful setting. So she smiles, tells herself she's just feeling her age.

The mother of the bride is radiant, still impossibly beautiful, dark hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. None of the reservation her older counterpart is feeling, none of the outrage her husband is undoubtedly fighting with.

And then the bride, arm tucked in her fathers. Mark's face is deceptively indifferent, belies the frustration (begrudging acceptance, joy, much as her own) as he leads his daughter to her future mate. He's losing her. Alicia flashes him a reassuring smile (hypocritical as it is), smacks Shannon's arm when he looks a little too smug (thinks she hears him mutter something about "turnabouts fair play").

She's never seen Sam smile so damn widely (remembers Nathaniel's expression being much the same, pointedly ignores the parallels), never seen the military poise he's so actively cultivated so strikingly absent. It softens her, if only slightly, to the inevitable. Reynolds hands his daughter over (though it takes a moment longer then it should, and Mallory is visibly attempting to extricate herself from his grasp), takes his seat. Glares a little. His wife pats his knee affectionately, nuzzles against his side, whispers something. Likely is reminding him of their own wedding. And if it isn't enough, Jim leans over and taps him lightly on the shoulder…

"Not fun, is it?"

Elisabeth smacks him lightly, "Jim!"

"No, sir, Mr. Shannon," the man mutters, sighs. Gives Maddy a small smile, relaxes in her embrace. It's too late to fight this. Hell, they _had_ fought this (and would have won, in any other circumstance, had their spawn not been half so damn stubborn).

Another squeeze to her hand, signaling she pay attention.

As he extends his arm to his bride, her son looks happier than she's ever seen him, hopelessly lost in the young woman's green eyes. He says something, she chuckles, mutters something back. Blissfully ignorant to the turn their parents thoughts have taken, content simply with each other.

She's losing her son, Reynold's his daughter, but seeing the two smiling so absurdly, neither can deny they've lost them to the best possible individual. Their most perfect mate. It leaves her feeling a little worn, a little resigned, a little sad, but undeniably proud as Boylan begins the ceremony.

She isn't much paying attention, not to the ceremony, not to the vows, just to their faces. Beaming, delighted, young, looking forward to a future hopelessly idealistic. A future they can have here. Imagines him younger, teaching him to walk, speak, how to shoot, how to fight. All sorts of things, all coming to an end today. It makes her feel every one of her years, makes her desperately long for a scotch. It makes her heart swell with begrudging warmth as the duo move through their vows, twine their lives together.

Consciously or not, she leans towards Nathaniel, takes no small amount of solace in his warmth. Remembers their own day (far less extravagant, far more intimate, every bit as perfect), remembers finally, finally, being able to declare her love for him after so many years keeping it to herself. Remembers the look in his eyes as she walked towards him on Shannon's arm, remembers simply knowing, without a doubt, without any reservation, that she'd made the correct choice.

She sees that in her son's face now. Squeezes her Commander's, her husband's, her life's, hand. Doesn't care if the more public display of affection is taken as weak. He smiles at her, that same smile she remembers from so many years ago, the same smile gracing their son's features as he pledges his life to another. And, with far less reservation, she returns it.

"You may now," Boylan is saying with all his customary flair, hands clasped together in front of him, "Kiss the bride." Her son complies with almost comical readiness and, much as her mother had on her special day, Mallory lets out a surprised squeak before melting into her husband's embrace. Their assembly claps, their parents exchanging proud glances.

Its cliché and entirely too open for the two of them, but Nathaniel catches her chin as she turns to him, presses a delicate kiss to her lips. It's chaste, light, dripping with emotion, leaves her uncomfortably flustered, her emotions all out of place. He'd made the right choice, he doesn't regret it, doesn't regret her, it says. Brushes a hand gently across her cheek as the newlyweds make their way back down the aisle, fingers clasping behind her neck. Alicia smiles against his lips, an answering kiss to his chin; knows that he's right, as always. He'd chosen her, and his instincts had been good. He'd loved her, loves her, always will. She'd made the right choice, her instincts perfect. She'd loved him, loves him, knew from his smile that she always would. They'd made the right choice.

And it holds that their son has as well.

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><p><strong>AN:** I think writing this might have given me a cavity. It's entirely possible. I feel unclean.

As regards the kid's names:

Mallory: Ah, alliteration, Mark and Maddy are adorable enough to think it's cute.

Sam: Because, for some weird reason, I always see a W/T kid growing up looking like Samuel Anders from BSG. xD


End file.
